


A Tame Wolf

by Deus_Ex



Series: Neither Wolves Nor Witchers Feel [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: But Geralt Low-Key Loves It, Drabble, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, It's Classy Smut, Jaskier is Annoying, M/M, One Shot, Porn With Plot, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, The White Wolf, Written in one sitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22176772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: And Jaskier does a good job of spinning it: how Geralt is decidedly canine in that he will, most likely, frequently, sometimes, occasionally, come to heel for a hot meal, a soft bed, and a bit of physical attention.  But even Jaskier carefully leaves out the part that Geralt doesn't always stay, and isn't predictable when he does.  After all, he's not a tame wolf.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Neither Wolves Nor Witchers Feel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601413
Comments: 64
Kudos: 1594





	A Tame Wolf

Jaskier had first come up with the name by accident. “The White Wolf!” he declared, amongst other things, pontificating and gesticulating and otherwise making noise and taking up space that Geralt was quick to put a stop to. Not quite as definitively as after he’d made the mistake of using his title, “The Butcher of Blaviken.” But he’d put a stop to it no less.

Geralt’s disproval hardly stopped Jaskier from putting some of those little phrases into songs, though. The bard was hard-pressed to quash his own genius, and as a result ended up with a new song by the end of the night. Amber eyes, white hair, tall and strong and silent and deadly-well, he would be a fool to ignore such a muse! Geralt skulked off to take care of Roach and Jaskier delivered an encore to thunderous applause demanding more tales of “The White Wolf.”

But the more Jaskier thought about it, the more it fit. Slowly, the other titles fell off, leaving only The White Wolf. Some people whose minds couldn’t be changed still spat at Geralt and cursed him as The Butcher, but at least Geralt could walk into a tavern and get service without having to draw his blade. He could walk into the tavern, actually, Jaskier amended to himself, before deciding to leave that part out of his newest work. It wouldn’t do to bring up the past.

After a year of traveling with Geralt, Jaskier had become quite good at it. Traveling with Geralt, that is. It was boring sometimes, exhausting all the time, and every time he found excitement he wished for it to end, only to be disappointed when it did and long for the next bout. Long treks through the wilderness, camping in the woods, danger lurking at every turn! It was a fine life, traveling the Continent performing in every town they stopped in and hearing people sing along with him. And Geralt would settle down somewhere like a dog-err, a wolf, that was-with a bone, and eat, never quite letting his guard down, despite the fact that, for once, no one was staring at him with hatred and revulsion.

The first time Jaskier is shocked by Geralt is when they’ve gone days without seeing a town, and finally enter one. This one, though, is so far removed from the rest of the world that they haven’t heard Jaskier’s songs. It’s like it was in the beginning: Geralt drew his hood up to cover his hair, but nothing could hide the flash of yellow eyes from underneath it. “Butcher,” they greeted him, spitting and cursing. The entire town was dull, gray, and dreary; it was damp like it never stopped raining, glum like the sun never came out, and hopeless like the people had never been able to break free of what meager existence they were able to eke from their surroundings. Although Jaskier suggested it, wheedled and coaxed and cajoled, Geralt silently refused to even acknowledge his efforts at finding an inn for the night and instead went straight to the apothecary. There was a Drowner on the other side of town, the posting had said, and the apothecary needed its brain. He’d pay what he could. And while he appeared shaky and nervous, he at least dealt with Geralt honestly and fairly.

That night, Jaskier went into town by himself. If nothing else, he stated, he was going to sing for the people, buy a meal and a drink, and warm up and dry out a tad. Geralt had simply grunted, which Jaskier took to be permission, and marched straight off through the mud that still bothered him oh so much in search of a venue for the evening.

He did better than expected. The townspeople had little coin, but they fed him well and kept the ale coming for him. At the end of the night, when the drab daytime clouds gave way to the pitch black that only a starless and moonless sky could offer, Jaskier packed up a bit of leftover food and bowed his way out of the tavern, waving off a pretty young lass who had been eyeing him the whole time he played. For once, his mind was not on her, but on the towering man he had left alone with his horse several hours prior.

Returning to Geralt, he found the Witcher ripping the last of the meat off the bones of some unidentifiable animal. His arms and face were smeared with blood; with his lips peeled off his teeth, he looked very much wolf-like as he tore into the carcass, not even lifting an eye to Jaskier’s noisy approach. Pausing at the edge of the clearing where Geralt had built a fire, Jaskier watched, fascinated for some reason, as Geralt tossed the last of the bones into the fire and roughly swiped at the blood dripping down his chin. Somehow, this felt fitting, Jaskier mused: the hunter, the apex predator, devouring his kill in the dead of night.

“Going to stand there all night, bard?”

Jaskier fairly jumped out of his skin, but scrambled and managed to squeak out, “Err-no, no, I, um…” Aborting that effort, lurching forward, Jaskier dumped the small pack he’d made out of a cloth napkin into Geralt’s lap and blurted out, “It went better than expected. No money, but they-they gave me food.”

Eyeing the parcel, Geralt was unreadable as ever as he glanced back to Jaskier. “Did you eat?”

“Me? Oh, yes, at the tavern-”

It seemed to be all the permission Geralt needed to withdraw a large hunk of bread and tear into it as ferociously as he had the meat. After another moment of dumbfounded silence, Jaskier hesitantly sank to a nearby fallen branch, never taking his eyes off of Geralt. The man ate like a wolf would: quickly, purposefully, because he had to and not for any sort of enjoyment. It occurred to Jaskier than that, while Geralt had already eaten whatever animal he’d killed, he was still ripping into the bread like he was starving. For all Jaskier knew, he could be: Geralt was twice his size and not entirely human-

Lamplike yellow eyes fixed on his then in an alarming display of Geralt’s signature impeccable timing. Suddenly feeling like goop stuck on that log, it was all Jaskier could do to stare back at the mighty Witcher and hope that he wouldn’t be the next meal.

As Geralt turned back to the package Jaskier had brought and bit into a lump of cheese, the bard breathed out, and decided that that would be going into the next song.

***

As interesting as camping could be, Jaskier infinitely preferred the nights when they were able to find lodging at an inn. Second best was when a grateful townsperson offered to put them up for the night in exchange for their help. And it was always the same: Jaskier would sing and dance and play while villagers tossed coins into his lute case and Geralt would bring back the head of whatever he was supposed to kill and collect his dues. The nights when they found work in larger towns with better money were always the best: those people had heard his songs and looked forward to his performances and an appearance from the White Wolf, they had better food and plenty of it, and almost as much coin to match, and a seemingly-endless supply of ale. They could sleep in warm beds and take hot baths and eat freshly-cooked food. Geralt never said it, but Jaskier knew he was more comfortable those nights. Several years into their sojourn across the Continent, Jaskier had learned a few things about Geralt.

Such as how the Witcher always slept deeper in a bed than out in the wild, when there were less monsters lurking in the shadows to worry about. How he still woke before Jaskier, as always, but seemed a bit slower to stir nonetheless. How his hair was shinier and he smelled less like death and destiny. How Roach was happier put up in a stable chewing hay all night as opposed to picketed by a tree nibbling whatever grass she could reach. How he could sometimes discern the ghost of a smile on Geralt’s face as the Witcher found breakfast waiting for them in the morning, because Jaskier had seen fit to ask one of the barmaids to leave it for them.

One such morning he awoke to find Geralt in front of the fire, bare-chested with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, eating slowly like a civilized human. It was so shocking that when Jaskier went to get out of bed, he misjudged his distance, yelped, fell, and ended up thumping to the floor in a tangle of blankets.

It was the first time he’d ever heard Geralt laugh, and yes, it could absolutely be described as a bark.

***

Sometimes, as he sings his songs about the White Wolf, he thinks about the magnificent mane that gave him that name. He thinks about running his fingers through it, scratching his nails across the scalp underneath. He then thinks better of it. He’d like to keep his hands.

***

The first time he ever tamed the White Wolf was just a random night among what was becoming thousands spent together. The ale had flowed steadily, the food had been good, and the summer night was warm. Jaskier had said something stupid, Geralt had responded with a short but eloquent reprisal, and the next thing he knew, Jaskier had turned to Geralt and kissed him full on the mouth.

And _gods_ if Geralt hadn’t kissed him back! He’d kissed Jaskier like he was dying for it, so accepting and yielding that Jaskier felt courage flare inside of him like Geralt had cast the Sign of Igni in his chest. Surging forward, taking them both down to the grass, Jaskier had stripped them both and pulled the tie from Geralt’s hair and the next thing he knew they had ceased to be two separate people but became one whole being. He was not bold enough or presumptuous enough to attempt to mount Geralt: but he was brave enough to wind his fingers through the Witcher’s hair and drag him up for a kiss as he rode his length with obscene skill. He did chance tangling their fingers together and pressing Geralt’s hands back into the grass when the Wolf took his hips and attempted to change the rhythm their bodies had fallen into. He gambled on littering Geralt’s neck and chest and shoulders with love-bites, and was rewarded with the sweetest keens and the telltale twitch he could feel from his lover’s cock-

Geralt had finally reared up at this, turning them both over and fucking Jaskier through their mutual completions. But when they’d both spent themselves, he settled on the grass next to Jaskier, rolling to one hip and wrapping an arm around Jaskier until the bard laid back, too, breathing much heavier than the Witcher. And the Wolf simply rested his head against his shoulder, dragged in a lungful of his scent, and slumbered.

***

Jaskier forgets, these days, how much Geralt tolerates from him that he does not from other people. A merchant who had eagerly accepted a trade but then backed out once he saw Geralt’s eyes gets a fist slammed to his table and a firmly-growled demand to see the deal through; a chattering barmaid receives a scathing glare and a dismissive grunt; a prophetess painting him the Butcher he’d tried so hard not to become is the target of a scathing condemnation; a town mayor who contracts Geralt to rid them of a werewolf and then withholds payment gets one of Geralt’s finest glares, a sadistic grin, and knife dug into the table exactly where his hand was a second ago, and Jaskier knows Geralt is toying with him, because Geralt isn’t even close to that slow.

But when they make camp that night, huddled under a tiny oilcloth hung between two trees, lying on top of two bedrolls stacked one over the other, Jaskier leans against one of the trees and strums his lute and hums idly, not thinking of or composing anything, and Geralt merely lays down and closes his eyes. He forgets, Jaskier reminds himself, that while the Wolf slumbers peacefully for him, that he does not do so for anyone else. Often, Jaskier wonders why the Wolf eats from his hand, when there are dozens of others offering food. Then, he decides that looking a gift horse in the mouth is pointless, and shifts so that Geralt can reach him, and begins to play a lullaby. Who knew wolves loved music?

***

In one town, they encounter dishonest men who attempt to kidnap Jaskier to force Geralt to kill their monster without pay. Geralt slaughters them all without a flicker of emotion on his face. Jaskier still runs to him gladly when it’s all over, never mind the slick of blood and stench of shit and death cloying about him. There is no room for fear between them. He knew then, and still knows now, that Geralt is not a tame wolf.

***

They’re bunked up in an inn for the night, well-fed, clean, and warm. The bed is soft, the blankets are cozy, and Geralt is in an excellent mood. He’d shaken his head at Jaskier when the bard whispered, “let me,” and climbed on top of him. Disappointed, Jaskier had slithered back off his lap, only to find himself on his back with Geralt’s mouth on him, and he had never been much of one for prayer, but the words he uttered then were nothing short of a litany. With a leg thrown over one of Geralt’s massive shoulders, sweat slicking his skin, hands knotted in the sheets, Jaskier was dangerously close when Geralt released him in favor of nipping at the thin skin over his hip and wordlessly guiding his hands to his white hair. Jaskier found his release embarrassingly quickly at that point, and couldn’t muster the energy to give Geralt any attention for quite some time. Geralt, bless him, had reassured him he didn’t mind, and they had both dozed until the next morning. When Jaskier woke up, Geralt was, of course, already awake, and both of them fell right back into each other.

On their sides, with Geralt’s arms wrapped around his chest and waist, strong chest against his back, white hair spilling over both of their shoulders, Jaskier had simply crowded in closer and tangled his legs with Geralt’s to bring their bodies flush from shoulder to ankle. Geralt had taken the invitation and only spared a hand to initially guide himself before immediately returning to that intimate embrace that felt like safety and home. Jaskier spilled himself again when Geralt sank his teeth into the meat of his shoulder just at the base of his neck, and their bodies were close enough that Jaskier felt Geralt’s abdomen tense before he finished as well.

Later, Jaskier watched as Geralt sank his teeth into another’s throat. He was reminded that Geralt was not a tame wolf.

But he was Jaskier’s wolf.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to try so hard not to make this a 5+1 because they are my favorite but I do way too many of them and I felt like it would disrupt the flow of the story. This was mostly based on the TV series, with some book influence.


End file.
